


Oil and Water

by hegemony



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Knifeplay, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wouldn't know it if you looked, but the scars they give one another have meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oil and Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first Iss_enterprise kink meme on LJ  
> Dated 23rd-Sep-2009

"Shall we begin, Mr. Sulu?"

He smiles at the question, a nasty little curl of lips. He uses the phrase whenever he gets the treat of interrogating someone. He thinks it's quaint that she uses the words, sentimental. He brings his arms around her, closes her in like a trap sprung on prey. She pulls him close, her smile watery-sweet and she smiles upon his lips, a conspirator's grin that sours in slow motion.

"Take off your shirt and kneel."

She says it casually, the order pure venom as she takes her time plucking the handle of his sword from his belt. He looks at her as she shrugs him off and backs away, the prim coif of her hair and the clothing she's wearing, skillfully arranged tatters and scraps that reveal the long, lush line of her torso, the jut of her hipbones. In the absurdly tight pants she's wearing, she bears his mark, raised skin against her inner thigh, a wound she never allows anyone to see. He remembers making that cut, the razor between his lips as he teased her everywhere, the way she was perfectly still against his mouth even as the pain seared while she bled.

She tells him all she wants is a night where he's aware of what she can make him into.

He licks his lips, looking her in the eye and grasps the hem of his shirt, lifting it back and over his head. He pushes the issue, stands there defiant in front of her until she presses the button on his sword, reveals the katana blade, holding it as powerfully as he ever has before. The command is quiet, fierce and powerful like a direction printed on the Empire's rare paper stationary.

"Kneel."

He falls to his knees and sits on his heels.

"Was that hard for you?" She asks, her tone a parody of some caring mother figure that doesn't exist within her shell. "Did you strain over that? I didn't mean to insult your firm, strong masculinity with such a simple request."

He looks at her, placing his hands on his thighs. He tries not to glare. She laughs softly, walks close to him with the Katana drawn, holds the tip just under his chin.

"Even in this state and its current ironies, I trust you can find your place amidst the discomfort," she smiles.

"Of course," he murmurs.

"So he speaks," she teases, raising the sword to lightly graze at his chin, flick at his lips. Waves of fear and trust flood him, and he tries not to respond as he can feel himself growing hard.

He knows what she really means.

"Yes," he affirms. He does not blink when she cuts his lip down the middle with a flick of her wrist, just barely breaking the skin like she's got a scalpel instead. He does not gasp when he feels the wound's blood roll down his chin. She pushes in a little deeper, lets him feel how fragile and perfect she's being with him, and presses the button to retract the blade. Her fingers trace through the blood.

"Weak," she hisses.

"Perhaps," he says, coyly.

She towers over him, and for a second he thinks this is going to be over quickly, his face in her cunt until she's screaming and flooding the pants she has yet to take off with come, keeping him pinned with no relief, a bloody lip and a hard-on for his trouble. She picks up his hand, knotting it in a thin piece of rough braided leather tied to a restraint hook in the corner of the room, pulling his arm in tension.

"You can tie better knots than this," he says.

She grins menacingly as she yanks the other arm up by the wrist. "You know, there's this nasty little rumor about you. All that emotion you never quite show. Do you know if any of your descendants bled green?"

"Some of us could do with a little stoicism in their lives," he says, wistfully.

"I'm sure some of us could," she says, "but some of us could do a little with some reaction as well. Do you know what that means, Mr. Sulu, for you and your self-control."

"I'm sure I'll know soon enough."

The handle of the sword sweeps over the plump outline of his cock, still stuffed haphazardly in his uniform trousers. He smiles, his split lip stinging as the skin stretches to accommodate the move: she never has to say anything.

Walking over to the pedestal in the room, she picks up one of her daggers and the stone she sharpens them on, finishing the job she'd been doing when he'd come in. the whetstone makes a rough, uneasy sound when she lets the metal glide across it. She says nothing, doesn't even look in Hikaru's direction while she does it, letting the sound not only fill the room but own it. He thinks it's because she wants him to wait it out, stew in his own fatigue for a while before everything goes wrong. He'd do the same to her.

When she's ready, she stands up, says nothing but walks seductively over to him, making sure her hips swing and that he watches the dagger in her hand. She's got a murderous look in her eye, and the weakness of fear cuts through him for a few seconds before it's abandoned for arousal. She looks gorgeous, walking to him like that, like she has plans for him that will require him to hurt before it's good. She disappears from view, and all he can think of is how she'll stab him, take the pleasure of penetrating him over and over again until he's dead.

The flat of her dagger's blade runs up his back slowly, morphing into its edge, the fire and pain that comes along with such a shallow cut even as it runs deeper. His eyes close and his body arches into the little nuances of such torture, the long curls and curves of her cuts, the river of blood that dances in thick drops that fall like sweat down his back. It takes all the power he has within himself to not whimper when she twists her knife just right in him, to moan with every long stroke she gives across his skin. Instead, he does as she expects, becomes a canvas that tries so hard to never bother its creator so he'll finally be able to collect his bearings and have her the way he wants.

He cries out after a particularly painful stab, the skin parting deep. She does it again, and again, and one more time for symmetry's sake, backing off to let the pain cut through him until he's shaking.

Underneath the pain is the nuance of her support in the warmth of her body against his, the fingers of one hand splayed on his hip, nails just barely digging in. He bares his teeth, putting his head down.

"Ho...how do they look?" he asks.

"Why do you care?" she responds, giving him a particularly nasty cut over a muscle that had already been quaking with strain. "Say the word and we back out, tell me you want the regenerator and it'll be like none of it ever happened."

"Like you'd make anything that easy," he growls. His arms are starting to sag from him holding them up this long. Slowly, her hands creep around him, carving into skin he can see. He's shaking, gasping, groaning with the pain. She rests her head on his shoulder, like she's curious or being protective, or perhaps wants a better view.

The cuts go quicker but are deeper when he can see them, her dagger moving like a brush over his skin, and it stings and makes him feel like he's drawn too tight, like he could go mad. He's right at the edge, could feel his control snap, and as he's preparing to slip the knots, worry his arms raw in attempt to get through some honest to gods pleasure through the pain, she stops. The dagger falls from her hand and clatters on the floor. She reaches for his trousers instead.

"I must say I'm surprised," she says, happily. "I was betting on you snapping halfway through. All that blood, all that vulnerability. You hurt so pretty, if I were in the market for a pet."

"I don't want to be your pet," he says, firm. "You know what I want."

"I do," she says simply as she reaches into his trousers and fishes out his cock, aggressive red and long. Her hair brushes against his shoulder, her mouth pressing against his neck. He grits his teeth, looking down at her hand caked thickly with blood as she strokes him. Her fingers burrow into his trousers more, push further until he's being breached, the pressure of her fingers moving inside him. His breath hitches as she crawls further and grazes across his prostate. "Intimacy? Brothers in arms? Lovers? You'll have what you want. I promise."

"...Just let you have your fun, first? Funny, you sound like a snake," he whispers.

"A snake? I'm not as fond of being on my stomach."

He laughs, tugging at his bonds and finding they aren't quite as lose as he thought. Her fingers slide away, and her hands retreat from his open pants. She picks up a towel, most likely soaked in McCoy's Bourbon or Mr. Scott's Synthenol whiskey, wipes his wounds clean in smooth, controlled strokes, the pain searing as he hangs his head and gasps, shaking. The pain takes the strength from his sails, and his fingers curl into fists, his breath heaving as he screams.

"I won't think any less of you if you beg," she says, lightly.

"You're an awful liar. You think so lowly of me already," he sneers.

"Perhaps I'm a better liar than you think."

She runs the regenerator over his skin, holds it at an angle so the skin doesn't heal quite right, raised and scarred over. She brings her mouth down to trace a particularly painful cut, the curling scar tender under the heat of her tongue.

She repeats the motions down the front of his chest, methodical at wiping away the blood and healing the skin, the scarring that remains in beautiful, long swirls, an elegant pattern that makes him tremble when he looks down. She gets up, stepping over his bondage and sitting in front of him, removing her top to reveal her own set of cuts all over her breasts and upper back, erotic torture hearkening back to the first few times she allowed him to see her like this. She had owned it, then, owned the fact that she was coming for him while bowled over in pain, owned the fact that he'd done so little and made her so wet.

Now, she's tracing her fingers over his cock, her eyes a silent dare to hold back from coming as she rights herself, slowly pulls down her pants to reveal smooth shaven cunt, inner thighs marked with swirls of his touch cut into her skin.

"I can smell you," he says.

"It's all your fault, bleeding so pretty. Don't act like you didn't like it," she teases.

She straddles him, giving pause to tease herself and moving her hips like water. She settles and slides down onto him, wet and tight. She settles around him, lets him bottom out.

"Fuck," he curses.

Her voice sounds fragile as she rolls her hips and keeps her head down, focused on her own pleasure. "Yeah."

She leans back, gives herself some leverage in the situation, lets him watch her ride, the jut of her hips and the way the scars on her skin move as she wiggles, rises up and down. The room narrows, pain erased within the folds of her. They both groan as she slows down, rolls her body in slow motion, lifting her eyes to look at him, his scarred body and stretched arms.

"You look gorgeous," She says. The hiss has been taken out of her voice as if she means it as a compliment to him, not to her work. She reaches out, traces her fingers against his jaw. "You must really like it, being in those knots."

"How do you know I haven't slipped them yet?" he asks.

"You like the position you're in, then?" She smiles.

"As if pride would allow," he grins, pulls on his bonds and lifts himself up, the pain from her cuts on his abdomen still stinging as he powers himself to thrust into her, countering her teasing. She cries out, a wet gorgeous sound. He stresses the issue, shows her how much he wants her and this and when he gets tired he finally does slip free and push her down against the floor, shifts his position to lie on top of her, hold her open with his legs and fuck right in until she's panting and gasping, allowing him to have what he wants of her.

His hands go to the places where he can't mark, her stomach and her wrists as he gathers them in a hand and pins them. She stays quiet, defiant even as her breathing becomes ragged, her body arches into his touch, she sucks at her bottom lip and her hair spreads out against the floor. He lets his head sink, run over the raised skin that ornaments her breasts, perfect swirls that stop at the areolae, a different kind of sensation on her body.

"You have no sense in direction, do you? Wouldn't know what to do with a fucktoy if you had the chance," she snarls, and he jerks into her just a little harder like he wants it to hurt.

"For someone so talkative, it's amazing that you don't know how to ask for something we both know you want," he points out.

"Touch me," she retorts.

"Now, was that such a hard thing to do?" he asks, his hand reaching down, indulging her until she's right at the brink before pulling away. She looks radiant this way, gasping and falling apart under him, struggling even though they both know just how much she enjoys the predicament. She always lets him, gives him permission as long as he doesn't break her, and he genuinely has little clue what he deserved to see her in a fragile state. She doesn't beg, doesn't submit.

He presses them together, wedges his torso against hers and lodges his face into her neck, grabs at her legs and splits them as open as they can go, thrusting until the pleasure of her wetness, how tight she is around him turns into the exertion of already dying muscles, the pain of him staving off relief.

"Come." he growls in her ear.

She's pretty when she obeys.

There's more intense aftercare when they've separated. To show the wounds of this alliance, the come dripping down the back of Uhura's thighs or the blood that has dried on his pants, would mean revealing that the rivalry they've been maintaining is simply theatre. To do that now would mean all the work they've done was simply done at the whim of the emperor, secret assassins doing what was asked of them under penalty of death and nothing else.

No. They work too well together for that. He likes being the oil to her water, likes how this works behind closed doors, pain and pleasure the reward to missions done quick and precisely. He likes wearing her mark, seeing his all over her skin.

She cleans the dagger carefully, returns his sword to him.

"There's new orders for sabotage on one of the colonies on Risa," she tells him, quietly.

He makes a noise. "We haven't had one of those in a while."

"I knew you'd want it," she teases. "I'm glad."

"Do you mind if we get this done in a hurry? There are a few consorts on Risa I'd like to have a word with personally. You understand."

She looks on and grins, the word 'assassination' hanging between them. "Of course I do."

She reaches to kiss him again, tongue teasing at the seam of his lips, the chastity torturous. He pulls her a little closer and thinks to how he got into such a precarious position of loyalty. Still, she understands, and while they'll never quite trust each other fully, scarred flesh pulls them together, and the way they do this for each other is enough.

Oil and Water, indeed.


End file.
